Mea Culpa
by Jevvica
Summary: His gun. His musket ball. Aramis could see the blood from here. He'd done this.


Summary:

His gun. His musket ball.

Aramis could see the blood from here.

He'd done this.

Author's Notes: See Me As I Am 101 sent me a really sweet note. And I appreciated it so much, I decided to give a bit of a holiday gift in response to this prompt on their profile: _"__I will love you forever if Aramis shoots Porthos (accidentally or because another's life was at stake)"_

It seems a pittance in return for eternal love. Hopefully, it will do. ;)

I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

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_ConfiteorDeo omnipotenti – _I confess to Almighty God

_quia peccávi nimis – _that I have greatly sinned

_Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea cupla_ - Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault

-from the Confiteor prayer

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* * *

><p>It was very early or very late, depending on who you asked.<p>

For most of Paris, it was early, the sky lightening with a grey dawn. For the Musketeers, returning from duty at the palace, it was definitely too late for the group of men who sauntered down the broad street, clearly looking for a fight.

"Gentlemen, we've no quarrel with you," said Athos. "And we are quite certainly not in the mood. Attacking six of the King's Musketeers in the square will not go well for you." The men ignored Athos entirely, moving closer and drawing weapons.

"You've got to be kiddin' me," muttered Porthos as he tossed his hat to one side and pulled his sword.

"Well," said Aramis brightly, smiling at Athos. "You did give them fair warning." Athos unsheathed his sword somberly.

"Let's get this over with, shall we?"

For a few minutes it was shouting and clanging swords. Aramis dispatched his current opponent and looked across the square.

He watched as a very diminutive, and apparently ambitious, man engaged Porthos in hand to hand. The man was dodging about, attempting to use his small stature to stay under Porthos' attacks. Aramis grinned and pulled out his arquebus. Aramis tracked the man, waiting until the next pass carried him away from Porthos.

Just as Aramis pulled the trigger, the short man lunged at Porthos ahead of his previous timing and someone barreled into Aramis' back.

Aramis saw Porthos' head snap back with shocking clarity.

The short man collided with Porthos and met no resistance, sending them both crashing into the building behind them.

Porthos hit the wall and slid to the ground.

Horror sliced through Aramis' chest.

He stumbled and pivoted. Whoever had hit him was gone.

Aramis turned back.

Porthos didn't move.

And Aramis couldn't.

He'd done this.

His gun.

His musket ball.

He could see the blood from here.

He'd done this.

Aramis finally took a step.

And then another.

As though drawn, he crossed the square, heedless of anyone else.

Aramis dropped to his knees at Porthos' side.

He'd done this.

There was blood all over the side Porthos' face, so much blood, running down his neck, pooling in his collar, staining his shirt.

But he was breathing.

Porthos was still breathing and Aramis had work to do.

Aramis shed his gloves and reached for his friend's head. He pulled off the bandana covering Porthos' dark curls and used it to wipe away the blood until he found its source, a groove cut in Porthos' temple, just above his ear.

Aramis pressed the fabric to the wound and kept looking.

His fingertips soon found a lump at the back of Porthos' head, where he'd hit the wall.

Aramis clenched his jaw and rubbed at his burning eyes with his free hand.

It was a graze.

Porthos would probably be fine and Aramis still wanted to sob.

He'd done this.

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Aramis didn't remember the walk back to the garrison, but his grip never loosened on Porthos' head as his comrades bore him to his room.

Athos pressed his kit into his hands without his asking.

Aramis struggled to thread the needle and looked down at the angry furrow in Porthos' head.

He wiped at the blood that refused to stop obscuring the wound.

He stared at the red against brown, a sickening swirl.

Why couldn't he focus?

"Aramis."

Athos was watching him with an odd look.

The needle slipped.

Blood, tacky and tight all over his fingers.

"Aramis, do you want me to do it?"

He looked up at Athos with no idea how to answer.

No, he didn't want Athos to do it.

This was Porthos.

Aramis knew his skin like the path to the garrison.

Like the road home.

This was Aramis' job.

It was his responsibility.

His fault.

He should fix it.

But his damn hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Athos' grip on his wrist was impossibly steady.

"Aramis," tried Athos again. "Do you _need_ me to do it?"

Aramis blinked through sweat and tears and considered.

He needed Porthos whole.

He needed the blood to stop.

Athos could fix it.

Aramis nodded and held out the needle.

Athos carefully took it.

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Porthos was aware of the voice before anything else.

"Confiteor Deo omnipotenti."

Aramis was praying.

Porthos relaxed and let the cadence slip over him like a blanket, familiar and warm.

Until he truly took in the words.

"Quia peccávi nimis."

Sinned?

And then he could hear the anguish.

Something was wrong.

"Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa."

Porthos forced his eyes open only to slam them shut as the light from the window stabbed like a knife.

"Did I fall asleep in Mass again?" he groaned softly, trying to ignore the throbbing behind his eyes. The murmuring prayer stopped and careful fingers skimmed through his hair, easing the pain a bit.

Porthos blinked up at Aramis' haggard face.

"Hey now," he whispered soothingly, trying to reassure Aramis without knowing why.

Whatever it was, it was bad.

Aramis silently brushed the backs of his knuckles against Porthos' temple.

Porthos squinted and he felt the familiar pull of stitches.

"What happened?" asked Porthos, trying to sit up, even as the room tilted slightly.

"We were returning from the palace. We were attacked."

"I remember," said Porthos, and he did, mostly.

"There was a short man, fighting you." He paused, swallowing hard. "I...I was aiming for him...and from behind me..." Aramis was nearly choking on the words. "I never saw who hit me. Threw my aim off."

"Aramis?"

"And you fell. You fell, Porthos. Because of me."

Porthos frowned. Aramis wasn't making sense.

"I shot you. Another inch or two and your head would have been like a birthday melon," finished Aramis with a hysterical laugh.

"Sounds like an accident to me," stated Porthos.

"Doesn't matter." Aramis shook his head, hair wild. "It wouldn't matter, not if I killed you." He stood abruptly, fleeing the room before Porthos could understand what was happening.

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Athos tilted his book to catch the evening light from the window. Another shot cracked through the garrison courtyard and he fought down the urge to sigh.

Aramis had been at it for hours, ever since Porthos had woken up.

"That's it." Athos glanced across the room. Porthos was pulling on his boots, grumbling and muttering to himself. He watched carefully as Porthos stood up, but the big man seemed steady enough.

Athos raised an eyebrow as Porthos walked toward the door.

"I've got a bloody, poundin' headache. And his endless shootin' is not helping," explained Porthos.

"No, no, by all means," said Athos. "I fully support some peace and quiet, if..." He waited until Porthos looked at him. "If that is what comes of it."

"I'm not lookin' for a fight," explained Porthos.

"I know you're not." Porthos held his gaze for a long minute before nodding once and heading out the door.

Athos turned back to his book and waited.

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"Think you've shot up enough targets for one day." Aramis only just managed not to jump at the voice that rumbled from the shadows beneath the stairs.

"You're supposed to be in bed."

"It'd be a lot easier if someone wasn't makin' a godawful racket out here." Aramis ignored him and put another ball through the bull's eye of the target at the end of the courtyard. "Aramis, come in. You haven't eaten, you haven't slept, and you've shot every gun in the armory three times by now. Give it a rest."

"I'm being thorough."

"You're bein' an idiot." Aramis whirled to finally face Porthos.

"It was my shot! My mistake!" shouted Aramis, guilt firing his blood. "I should have seen him coming. I was arrogant and stupid and I should have been more careful," his voice echoed through the courtyard. "I watched you fall!" He turned to the table filled with guns and shot and powder and began to prime another pistol. He felt Porthos come up beside him, a steadfast warmth.

"A mistake. You aren't perfect, Aramis. But more'n that, when have we ever said you had to be? I'm not. Athos ain't. But we do alright together."

Aramis looked up at Porthos. His friend's face was open and genial, but he was squinting against even the dying light of evening, deepening the lines of pain around his eyes and mouth. Lines Aramis had put there.

"I thought you were dead," said Aramis, his voice dropping. "And by my hand. I could have killed you, Porthos," he whispered.

"But you didn't. Hmm?" Porthos met Aramis' eyes. "I'm here. You tried to help. You were doing what you do and someone made a mess of it." He reached out and took the pistol from Aramis' hand and tossed it on to the table. "I," he said, overriding Aramis' objection, "don't blame you."

Strong, and yet gentle, hands settled over Aramis' shoulders.

"And if I don't blame you, you don't get to blame yourself."

There was no anger in Porthos and Aramis desperately wanted to believe him. But Porthos was too good, too willing to believe that Aramis was good, too.

And his focus kept finding the row of stitches at Porthos' temple. His fingers shook as he reached for the bruised, swollen skin.

"Mea culpa..." Porthos caught his hand before he could touch the stitches and trapped it against his broad chest.

"Stop." Porthos' voice was sharp, but it softened immediately. "Stop, brother. No more culpas, no more penance. This weren't your fault." He tilted his head with a shrug and gave Aramis a smile.

"Shit happens, eh?"

Aramis stared. Porthos' grin was hope and forgiveness and exactly what Aramis needed.

"It does," agreed Aramis, finally. "To us, more often than not."

Porthos' laughter rolled through the twilight air.

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Still at the window, Athos smiled and shut his book.


End file.
